Waterfalls
by Teobi
Summary: What would Gilligan miss if they were rescued? Short one-shot about Gilligan and a waterfall.


_**A/N: **There is an episode, and I can't recall which one it is, where Gilligan briefly mentions that one day it was very hot and he took a shower under the waterfall. Since then I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. This isn't really about him taking a shower though, it's more to do with how he sees the waterfall and interacts with it. :)_

_All GI characters are property of the late Sherwood Schwartz, and as always, thanks are given for letting me borrow them_**.**

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><p><strong>Waterfalls<strong>

What will he miss if they are rescued?

He will miss waterfalls.

Maybe he'll miss other things more, but nothing beats taking a shower under a waterfall. Nothing beats the joyous sense of anticipation he feels as he stands on the bank, watching the shimmering sheet of water tumble over the top of the cliff. Nothing beats the growing excitement as he kicks off his shoes, not caring where they land. As he reaches behind with his skinny arms and yanks both his rugby shirt and his t-shirt over his head, leaving them in an untidy, inside-out-pile on the grass with his hat buried somewhere in the middle. As he unbuckles his belt (glancing around first to make sure no-one is looking) and hurriedly pushes his jeans down his legs, feeling as naughty as a twelve year old boy as he steps out of them and casts them aside in a rumpled heap. As he stands there hugging himself, clad only in his under shorts, never taking his eyes off the waterfall.

The hairs on his legs tickle in the breeze as he jumps up and down on the spot, all of his muscles tensing, preparing him for flight. All the while the crystal clear water spills over the edge of the cliff and into the pool below, winking in the sunlight, teasing him, daring him, egging him on.

Never ending water.

He lets out a whoop. The call of the wild, the battle cry of the young and alive. He flings his arms out to the sides and throws his head back to look at the sky. He lifts up on the balls of his feet.

He runs.

He runs in bounding leaps down the bank and into the water- _splash, splash, splash_- diving under the surface into a silent world where the only sound comes from the silvery bubbles streaming from his nostrils. He holds his breath and swims in the murky twilight world of _underneath_.

He can run like a rabbit, climb a tree like a monkey, and swim like a fish. He is everything in nature, and everything in nature is him. If he didn't need air, he sometimes thinks he could stay down here forever.

He swims back to where it's shallow and breaks the surface near the waterfall. From this perspective it looks much bigger now- towering and monstrous. He feels tiny, almost insignificant. He feels he should say something to appease whichever god it is that scoops the water up and hurls it down the mountain, minute after minute, hour after hour, until finally it reaches the cliff and leaps off with a thunderous roar, revelling in its final moments of glory while he waits below to catch it in his outstretched arms.

He wades closer. Spray tickles his face like a million feathers. Small beads collect on his eyelashes- he blinks, then shakes them away. He smells the freshness of the mountainside, the earthy, lingering scent of vegetation. He opens his mouth and catches the droplets on his tongue.

The water will not stop for him as he wades in. It pummels and berates him and forces him to bow his head. Does this act of humility appease the gods? Perhaps it does- for as soon as he is through the curtain he finds himself in a place of calm. A place of wet, secret rocks and glistening ropes of moss. A place where he is king, and the waterfall stands guard.

He puts out his hand and the curtain parts. He pulls his hand back and the curtain closes. He does this many times- it never fails to amuse him. When the curtain is open he can see through to the world he used to inhabit. When the curtain closes, he is lost to it. The world of green belongs to other people.

He is the boy who lives behind the waterfall.

The moss fascinates him. He lifts his hand and hesitates before touching it briefly. The moss is slimy. He shudders and pulls his hand back, just as he did the first time he touched it. He wonders if the god of waterfalls has hair made from moss. Maybe when the god made this one, some of his hair got snagged and this is what was left behind. He reaches out and touches it again. He finds it mysterious, and he doesn't think any other human eye but his has ever seen it.

He is king of the moss.

He reaches up to a tiny little gap between two rocks. He works his fingers in and locates a bar of soap, carefully drawing it out of its hidey hole. He wets the soap and begins to wash, starting with his head. He shampoos his hair with it- the soap is so mild and gentle that it doesn't even sting when it gets in his eyes. He lathers it across his chest, his stomach, spreads it down his arms, watching soapy bubbles drip from his elbows. He hums a merry tune, but the song of the waterfall is louder and he can barely hear himself.

He takes his time and washes thoroughly, right down to the gaps in between his toes. When he's finished he reaches up and puts the soap back, slotting it carefully into the rocks until the next time. Then he stands as close as he can to the roaring wall of water and rinses off. The water beats down on his head- _crash, crash, crash_- admonishing him for wanting to go back to the world of green. He runs his hands through his hair, feeling the water pounding on his knuckles. Don't go back, don't go back!

_I must go back. I must._

He bursts through the curtain and the sun is there to greet him, reaching for him with warm, open arms. Come, my child, you are cold and wet! Where have you been all this time?

He wades to the edge of the pool and climbs out onto the grass. Behind him the waterfall shouts in vain for his return. He walks, dripping, to his pile of clothes and all the other things that belong in the world of green. He picks up his towel and dries himself off, rubbing his hair until it sticks up in damp, dark spikes. He shakes out his clothes and gets dressed, then he sits down on the grass to put on his socks and shoes.

He feels clean and refreshed. The sun warms his face. He feels scrubbed and new, his old skin gone.

He stays awhile- having shared the secrets of the waterfall, he feels he owes it a few more moments of his time. He gazes at the cliff top and wonders. At what point does the water realises its fate? Does it make a last attempt to try and hold on, to not be hurled down and dashed into the ground? Or does it leap off the cliff without a second thought, knowing that in its final moments it became a thing of beauty?

He would like to think the waterfall is happy doing what it does.

He tears his eyes away from the waterfall and looks down at his watch. It's almost noon- almost time for lunch. He waits patiently until he sees the two hands join together on twelve, and sure enough his stomach begins growling. He sighs. Sometimes he thinks that time is a nuisance, but without it he wouldn't know when to be hungry.

He uncrosses his legs and rises effortlessly to his feet, taking his youth and vitality for granted. He brushes the grass from the seat of his pants, slings the towel around his neck. He pats his pockets and looks around to make sure he hasn't left anything behind- he spies a lone seashell and bends down to retrieve it.

He shakes out his hat and puts it on his head, patting it into place over his still damp hair. He is thinking about lunch, and what they are going to have today. He has already forgotten his kingdom of moss, his oasis of calm, his enchanted place of wet, secret rocks.

Feeling suddenly cheerful, he begins to whistle as he heads for home.

Behind him the waterfall shimmers and winks and carries on hurling itself off the cliff, roaring its defiance as it tumbles into oblivion. Minute after minute, hour after hour, from a million years ago until a million years hence.

Never ending water.


End file.
